Black Ooze

[kaxtar1]

This is the first poem I have posted for critique, I look forward to hearing feedback.

Black Ooze

He smiles scarred tracks on ice, cracks in the earth’s crust, cut into brown dust cheeks, protected in a barbed wire moustache.

Black treacle gathers in the skin cracks of his chin.

Tar dribbles at the sides of his mouth, strains onto his chest, madness circles into his nostrils, black smoke in his brain, a charred bird’s nest.

His melted and burnt form, gritty grease gets caught in his teeth.

A caustic sour chemical tangles his mouth, his tongue, his hair. Hot melted black bin bag stretched over his forehead, mat shining plastic, boarded with a crusted smear of black gravel.

His tongue sinks in a thin pool of ink, bubbles on his teeth cause fierce pain under his ripped lips.

The skating smile from his hole razors through his face, slashed spirals, twirls, dots and blotches, deep stains through the skin’s soul.

A tearing of plate territory, violence cuts into features.

Fluid flows as charred lava inside his husk. It rides the slopes to his eyes. Through the veins of his white domes it soaks into his pupils, black clouds in dusked water.

His dead face, pleased of any sensation. Rotting clotting black, gushes out his portals.

The stretching aperture holes of his Halloween mask smile with lunacy, they tare as its chin falls off, creating piles of singed plastic.

The lacerations, argue its face, collided to cause further physical distress.

His blade smile a compulsion, a nervous sickness. The black gold of the ocean, spewing out a rig. Severed arteries out of his neck create this repulsion.

Black ooze spews, unable to break monotony, convulsions out of a mass.

HI.  SO IN RETURN FOR YOUR FIRST POST, I'LL GIVE MY FIRST FEEDBACK.  

I have an unintelligent question, did you mean mask at the end?  I just don't understand mass.

So as far as I can tell there could be multiple interpretations for the poem and I'm frankly too overwhelmed to find one, so I'm taking the verbage at face value, that was fantastic.
One issue you're running into is the exact opposite of what Dickinson did, your word choice is fantastic but spastic.  You could argue that this grants more lunacy to the lunacy of the man but let's face it, we're not that type of artistic laziness.  Read some of Dickinson's poems, personally I think she's a great poet and a shit artist.  The poems she writes show how verbs need to LINK together the sameness in the poem.  Look at all the feelings you have in your poem, it's caustic, smooth, rough.  Don't get me wrong, clearly you're bubbling (like the dude's teeth, heh) with talent, your poem shows that and shoves it down my throat.  What it doesn't shove down is a point anyone could latch onto.  Most people here would probably mention that it doesn't make sense, because frankly, it doesn't need to.  But, what needs to be figured out is if this shotgun approach actually DOES anything.  If it doesn't, cut it out and conclude more strongly, otherwise, I love what you wrote and would love to see more from you.